Wetting the Baby's Head
by idle curiosity
Summary: The new captain of the Flying Dutchman learns that he has become a father.


_Wetting the baby's head__ - the process of celebrating the birth of a baby. Traditionally taking its name from the Christian baptismal rite, during which the head of a baby would be wet with blessed water, the phrase now commonly relates to the consumption of large amounts of alcohol as a celebration of the new arrival. _

_(Definition taken from Urban Dictionary)_

**Wetting the Baby's Head**

As he always does at the end of every voyage, Will Turner, Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, ferrier of souls, stands at the rail next to the gangway of his ship and watches as the latest group of passengers disembark onto the dock of the shores of the afterlife. His father, long ago made his first mate, is by his side, as is his custom.

They will file off in an orderly fashion. Some of them are very tentative of what might be waiting for them, some show absolute terror, and others seem to be ready to embrace Fiddler's Green with smiles of joy on their faces. And there are always some who will acknowledge him as they walk past.

_"Thank you for the safe voyage, Captain."_

_"I'm grateful for all you've done, Sir."_

_"You've made the trip easy, Sir."_

He will give them a slight smile, or a nod of his head, and wish them Godspeed.

Should a voyage happen to have any children aboard who have died alone, he will take time with each of them, kneeling to whisper a few reassurances to them before they depart. Losing his mother at an early age, learning to fend for himself, and having also been shipwrecked, he finds that the little ones always tangle themselves in his heartstrings. He understands completely what they are feeling. They often break his heart.

Once the passengers are gone, he will give orders to put to the seas of the dead again, and then either retreat to his cabin or, more often than not, take over the helm himself.

This time, however, is different. This time, he watches for someone in particular, all the while holding himself tensely. When he sees who he's looking for, he unconsciously stands a little straighter, and waits.

A rather nondescript pirate comes striding up, stopping for a moment in front of him. He holds out his hand.

"My congratulations once again, Cap'n," he says with a smile, as Will grasps his hand and shakes it firmly.

"Thank you," Will warmly replies. "I will forever be in your debt. Go with God."

As he watches, the man disembarks and eventually disappears into the mists that shroud the shores of the afterlife from the crew of the _Dutchman_. He has never seen what lies beyond that mist. It is not his place to know where the souls he delivers are going; he has long ago come to realize that he really doesn't want that knowledge, for not everyone is destined for happiness in the hereafter.

As he continues to follow the man's progress, his father looks at him curiously, eyebrow raised. Will can feel the weight of Bootstrap's gaze upon him, but doesn't say anything. When he can no longer see the nameless pirate, he finally turns towards his sire, his dark eyes a curious mix of sadness and wonder.

"We picked him up with the last shipwreck," Will explains, nodding his head in the man's direction. "He said he didn't fear death, when I offered him the chance to serve before the mast. He said he was ready to face whatever was waiting for him."

Will lifts his hand to rub the back of his neck, and rolls his shoulders as if to relieve an ache.

"I asked him if there was any news of Elizabeth," he confesses, turning his head away to stare once again at the spot where the man had disappeared.

His father is not surprised at this. He knows that Will asks the same question of every pirate that they pick up.

_"She's the king of the Brethren Court, Da, and a pirate lord herself," Will tells him. "If there is any news of her, be it good or bad, there isn't a pirate that sails that won't know about it eventually. Don't you see?" he cries. "I have to ask! This is all I have, all I know to do."_

As it always does, it pains Bootstrap to see how hungry Will is for any scrap of news of Elizabeth, how greedily he soaks up anything he hears, and how his shoulders sag when, more often than not, the pirates have nothing to tell.

It was in just this manner that Will had learned that Elizabeth was with child. Bill had never seen him so torn apart with incredulous delight, bitter resentment and aching pain as when his son had told him the news. Then he'd watched Will stride away to his quarters. He'd stayed in his cabin for an entire week. When he'd finally appeared on deck again, he was calm, but he'd looked pale and strained.

"I gather you've learned something," his father says.

"Aye," Will replies softly. He looks at Bootstrap, and his eyes fill with tears as he tells him the news. "I'm a father," he gives a crooked little smile. "Elizabeth safely delivered a fine baby boy. He's almost six months old now."

"He said she's named him William," Will's voice cracks, "after his da."

With that, he turns abruptly on his heel and strides away, going to his cabin. Bootstrap can hear the distant slam of the door. And his heart breaks for his son once again.

o-o-o-0-0-o-o-o

It's been five days. Five days, during which the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ has not been seen outside his quarters.

There have been a number of times during those 120 long hours that Bootstrap has found himself hesitating outside of the cabin door, his hand raised to knock, only to drop it again after thinking the better of it, and walking away.

His father knows that Will needs time - time to come to terms with the fact that he is an absent father, just as it had taken him time to reconcile himself to being an absent husband. He remembers how Will had struggled at first, how he'd grimly fought against the bond that the _Dutchman_ and Calypso had over him, fruitlessly searching for a way of being able to escape his fate.

_"Indentured servitude, Da," Will tells him bitterly, as he stares out over the endless waters that now comprise his world, "that's all this is. Indentured servitude. It's no different than when I was apprenticed to Mr. Brown. I did his work, now I do Calypso's. Only then, I had chances to see Elizabeth, to talk with her, to be with her sometimes." His fists tighten on the _Dutchman's_ rail. "Even when she was so far above me, I could at least gaze my fill. Now, I have nothing - nothing, except for what scraps I can glean - for ten long years."_

_"Bloody hell," he breathes out his anguish._

It had been a dark and terrible time, before a certain acceptance had come.

Will learning that he was going to be a father had been an equally dark time. Now, Will knows he has a son. And Boostrap knows that he is reeling from this latest bittersweet blow. So his father searches for something, anything that can possibly help Will get through it. And he thinks he's found an answer. But he also thinks it might be the wrong thing to do, and he's plagued with uncertainty.

Everything about being bound to the _Dutchman_ and its purpose, about being the ferrier of souls, is wrong. Oh, not in and of itself, maybe. But wrong for Will. Still, it is what it is. All he knows is that his son is struggling as he never has before, and Bootstrap needs to do _something_.

Maybe it won't help at all. But, his father wonders, can it hurt? Can it make things worse? He won't know unless he tries.

So Bill find himself, once again, standing in front of the door to Will's quarters. All is in readiness for him to put his simple plan into effect. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he knocks. He shifts from foot to foot as he waits, listening carefully for any indication that Will is going to answer. After a few moments, he knocks again.

"Will," he calls in a low voice, "Will, I know you're in there, son."

Bootstrap strains to hear any sound. He is just getting ready to knock again when he hears the scraping of wood against wood. A few moments later, the door in front of him is unlocked and jerked open.

Will stands in the entrance to his cabin, one hand grasping the edge of the wood above his head, and his father breathes in deeply at the sight of his son in the light of the torches on the _Dutchman's_ deck.

Will's hair is free of the neat bandana that Bootstrap has become used to seeing tied around his son's head. The curling strands frame a pale face that seems thinner than before, thin enough so that the cheekbones stand out more sharply. Will's jaw is clenched, his lips pressed tightly together. There are shadows under eyes that are so dark with pain that it hurts to look at them.

"What do you want, Da?" Will asks in a voice devoid of all emotion.

"I haven't seen you in almost a week," Bootstrap tells him, "neither has any of the crew."

"Maybe I haven't wanted to be seen," Will answers flatly, as he released his grip on the door and turns away. He walks back into his quarters, leaving the door wide open behind him. "Is there anything wrong with that?"

His father doesn't answer, not knowing quite what to say. He takes a few tentative steps inside.

Will continues to move towards the back of the cabin, where the organ that Davy Jones used to play still takes up almost the entire wall. He stops in front of it, and runs his hand along the keys. The brush of his fingers is so light, the organ makes no sound.

"When I was hiding in here, waiting for the chance to steal the key, I watched for a long time as Jones sat and played," Will looks over his shoulder at his father. "There was so much rage in his music, so much bitterness." Turning his face away again with a harsh laugh, Will brings his hand down hard upon the keys, and the organ booms out the clashing, strident sound. "I think I finally know exactly how he felt."

Bill's heart plummets. He knew that Will was struggling; hell, who wouldn't be? But even he hasn't realized the true depths of Will's despair. Suddenly, he is second-guessing his plan, wondering if all it would do is make things worse. He is so lost in thought that he startles when Will impatiently asks him the same question once again.

"What is it you want, Da?"

"I wanted to see how you were doing," Bill tells him. "I've been a little worried about you, being holed up in here for so long."

"I'm fine," Will answers him briefly, still staring down at the organ. After a moment's silence, he turns away from the grotesque instrument with a muttered "I hate this bloody thing," as he rakes a hand through his hair.

Bootstrap gives a little snort in response. "I'm thinking you're not," he disagrees. "It's a hard thing, finding out that you've a son that's been born while you're away."

Will's face turns stormy at his father's words, and an old bitterness comes just that quickly to the surface.

"That's right, I remember mum telling me how I'd been born while you were at sea. I was a little over a year old before you were home again." He gives a harsh chuckle. "I guess maybe you would understand how I feel."

"No," Bootstrap answers in complete honesty. "I can't say that I truly would. To be sure, I hated knowing that Anne would be giving birth while I was at sea, but that's a choice that I made. You've made no such choice. Tis a different thing for you."

His eyes get far away at the memory of coming in to port and finding his Anne waiting for him, holding their son in her arms.

"I remember the first time I saw you. T'was a year old, you were, maybe more. I think you were a little afraid of your da."

He smiles at the thought of a slight little boy with serious dark eyes and round cheeks that were stained red by the heat of the summer sun, perched in Anne's embrace. He'd reached out to hold Will for the first time, and his boy had buried his face in his mother's collar, not wanting to go to this strange man.

"It took you awhile to warm up to me," Bill grins, "but soon you were following me everywhere. Especially the docks. You loved the docks, the tall ships, the excitement of it all."

Will gives a reluctant smile, hearing about this moment from his childhood.

"I don't remember that," he says softly.

"It was a happy time. I was a father to a fine young son, and I wanted to celebrate. Went to the tavern down the road and shouted a round for everyone that was there," Bootstrap lifts his head to stare into his son's eyes. "It was quite a night, wetting your head. Anne almost boxed my ears when I finally came home, drunk as a lord," he chuckles. "Aye, a grand night indeed."

Bill takes a deep breath. It's time.

"Will," he says seriously, putting his hand on his son's shoulder, "I'm thinking we need to wet _your_ baby's head."

Will stares for a moment, and then his eyes widen and he pulls back, angrily shrugging off his father's grasp with a wide sweep of his arm. He turns away from him, fists clenched at his sides.

"No!" he says in a low, fierce voice. "No! I can't do that! I've barely even realized that he's been born, Da! Yes, I knew all along that Elizabeth had to have given birth well before now. But ... but now I know, now I really _know_. And it's killing me that my wife and my new son are out there and I'm stuck here. No, that's the last thing I want to do."

After a moment, Bootstrap reaches out to clasp his son's shoulders in his hands, gently turning a stubbornly resistant Will around to face him. His eyes are filled with understanding and regret, but they are stern as well.

"Which is precisely _why_ you should do this. Hell's teeth, boy!" his father gives Will's shoulders a slight shake. "Many a sailor's become a father while away at sea. Aye, the circumstances are terrible, but you've a fine son! And that is something that should be celebrated, no matter what the circumstances."

"I'm not ready, Da," Will's voice is strained as he pulls away once more.

His father watches Will's tense frame as he moves to stand by the window of the cabin. He sighs, his heart aching for his boy.

"I know it hurts," Bootstrap says softly, "but there's a time for everything, Will, even celebrating." He moves to stand next to his son again. "Now there's nothing, _nothing_ about this existence, about your being bound to this ship and its purpose, that is right. You and I both know that. But, in the world you've left behind, you'd be seeking out the nearest tavern to wet William's head, whether you'd been there for his birth or not. Maybe it would help, to do something here that you would have done there."

After a long stretch of silence, Will slants a pained, uncertain glance in his father's direction. "I don't know," he says quietly.

"You're a new father, man! I'm a grandfather," Bootstrap again puts his arm around Will's shoulders. "For one night, for this one night, forget about everything else. Forget about the _Dutchman_, Calypso, the ten years, the charge that you have ... and _be_ a new father. Put it all aside," he urges. "Toast the arrival of your son."

"I can see that you're not going to take my no for your answer, are you?" Will sighs. After another long pause, he nods his head in reluctant agreement. "Maybe you're right," he concedes.

"I've been wrong many a time about many a thing," his father chuckles, "but I'm thinking I'm not wrong about this." He claps a hand on his son's back, urging him through the door. "Now, let's go find some rum. I believe there's some below, in the mess."

Will has never understood how it is that the _Dutchman_ stays stocked with rum. He assumes that Calypso must be involved in some way, for there seems to be a never-ending supply of it. It's one of the few carry-overs, from the world of the living, allowed for a crew that has very little in the way of creature comforts as they sail the seas of the dead.

As they go below decks and draw near the mess, Will can hear the din of conversation. Opening the door, he stops in surprise when he sees almost his entire crew crowded around the table that dominates the small room. He hesitates, turning to his father with a question in his eyes.

"They know?" he asks in a low voice.

"Aye, they do," Bootstrap replies bracingly. "There's not much that will remain a secret aboard the _Dutchman_ for long, especially when the news involves its captain. There's still the small crew that's taken tonight's watch."

After a moment, Will nods, and turns to enter the room. He walks quietly to stand at his place at the head of the table, while his father takes the spot at his right.

There is a mug in front of every man, and there are numerous bottles of rum at the ready.

Bootstrap calls for silence, and the conversation dies as the crew respectfully rise to their feet.

"As you all are aware, Captain Turner here has become a proud new father. His wife, Elizabeth, has safely delivered a fine son, and named him William, after his da." There are cheers and a few shouted congratulations from the men. Bootstrap waits for silence, and then begins again. "We've come together to wet the baby's head, and to help Captain Turner celebrate this new life," he reaches down and picks up his mug of rum. The other men do the same, and after a moment Will does as well.

Bill raises his mug, and turns to his son.

"To William Turner, the Third!"

The men raise their mugs, and the toasts come from every side.

"A long and happy life to 'im."

"May fortune smile upon him."

"Good health to 'im."

"May he always know fair winds and following seas."

"The Lord's fine blessings be upon him."

Will stands with his crew, his mug raised with theirs, his eyes filling with tears as the men toast his young son. He clenches his jaw, breathing harshly to keep them from falling, and his heart overflows at their good wishes. He swallows hard.

"To William," he says softly. He pauses for a moment before bringing the mug to his lips. He then tosses back the rum, slamming his mug down on the table; his father and the other men do as well.

He gives a deep sigh, his eyes unseeing for a moment while his thoughts are far away with his family, his loneliness and longing for Elizabeth and William as tight as a fist in his chest. But then he sees that his mug is being refilled, and he shakes off his reverie. Toasts are now raised to Elizabeth, for her health and happiness and well-being, both as Will's wife and as William's mother.

"To Elizabeth," his voice catches, as he again tosses back his rum and slams down his mug.

He and the men take their seats. The bottles are passed and drinks are replenished. Conversation begins to hum around the table again, and the rum flows freely. There is much in the way of shouting and laughter, for this is a celebration of life, a true rarity in this world.

At first, Will is quiet and doesn't really take part in what is going on around him. But, as the evening wears on, the high spirits and the rum do their work. He begins to relax as he becomes slightly inebriated, the rum loosening his tongue. And he starts to talk. He talks to the men nearest him about his hopes and dreams for his son. He talks especially to his father. He tells Bootstrap all about his adored Elizabeth - how they'd met, how they'd fallen in love, how they'd married aboard the _Pearl,_ everything. He tells his father things about her that he'd never told him before. He talks to Bootstrap about William, about all the things he wants for him.

And, to his grateful surprise, he can feel the tightness in his chest ease, ,just a bit.

It is long into the night before the men finally leave, one or two at a time, after coming up to Will to congratulate him again on the birth of his son. Soon, only Will and his father are left sitting at the table. He gives Bill a smile that is not much more than a slight upward quirk of his lips. But his da is pleased to see a certain amount of peace in Will's eyes. He doesn't know if it will last, but it is enough for now.

"Thank you," Will tells him simply. And with that, he rises to his feet, telling Bootstrap that he is going topside to relieve the watch.

As he takes the helm on this most quiet of nights, Will puts his hands to the wheel, feeling the familiar thrum of the _Dutchman_ beating against his palms. He looks to the stars of the world he now lives in, brilliant points of light in a black velvet sky, and his thoughts fly to his wife and new son. He can almost see Elizabeth, holding William close as she rocks him to sleep in a room lit by a single candle, a warm Caribbean breeze blowing through the window.. He can almost hear the lullaby that she croons.

And in the quiet darkness of his world he sends his love to Elizabeth, as he always does, and now to William as well ... bidding them keep a weather eye on the horizon.


End file.
